by Kelly Bowen
“Where is his father?”
“Dead. Quatre Bras. Along with his two older brothers. Leaving Charlie as the man of the family at the ripe old age of seven.”
Eli was suddenly weary. Would there ever be a place where the shadow of so much death and so much loss did not reach?
Strathmore took the bloodied forceps from the young woman and examined the bullet caught in their grip. “Nicely done, Miss Swift. You may begin irrigating and suturing.”
“Thank you, Dr. Hayward.”
Rose stepped close to the table, a damp cloth in her hand. She didn’t look at Eli, her eyes fixed firmly on the small form lying pale and still. “If the soldiers find him, they’ll hang him.”
“Jesus, Rose. He’s a child.”
Rose gently wiped a smear of blood from the boy’s forehead. “He’s a thief.”
Eli shook his head. “He’s a survivor.”
She looked up at him then, studying him intently, unsmiling. “Yes. He is.”
It was an effort not to reach out and touch her. Eli clasped his hands behind his back, afraid he would do just that. He looked away, watching Miss Swift prepare her needles with the same deftness with which she had wielded her knife.
The baron cleared his throat. “I’ll have my patient recover upstairs in the servants’ quarters for at least a few days. Discreetly. Provided that is acceptable to you, Rivers.” There was an edge of challenge to that last sentence.
“This boy is the son and the brother of men who served their country. Men no different from me. Except they died and I didn’t. I rather think we owe this to them, don’t you?”
“I’m glad we agree on something, then, Rivers.” Strathmore dropped the bullet into a glass dish with an audible ping.
“Lord Rivers?” The question came from the young woman, who was tying off a suture. “Please forgive my boldness, but I was wondering if I might inquire about the nature of your injury.”
Eli recoiled. “I beg your pardon?”
Rachel Swift’s needle flashed. “My family owns a foundry. Six of them, actually. Burns are common. Too common, but they are hard to avoid, especially for the puddlers and the men working the blast furnaces. I’ve taken it upon myself to study the best practices and courses of treatment to ensure the greatest chance of full recovery when accidents occur. As such, I am interested in how your burn was treated. It appears that the healed tissue has retained at least some of its elasticity. Your movements of your head and neck do not appear to be compromised or restricted. The loss of your eye is unfortunate, of course, but your sense of hearing seems to have been preserved on that side despite the damage to your outer ear.”
Eli was aware Rose was watching him again, and he ducked his head as each horrifying component of his disfigurement was listed like an advert for a sideshow attraction. How dare this stranger, this…chit, pry into something so personal. So private. As if she had every right. It was all he could do not to release the child’s legs and quit the room.
Miss Swift picked up a scissor and snipped another suture, apparently oblivious to his agony. “Do you suffer headaches because of your partial loss of vision?” She finally glanced up at him with cool green eyes as though she expected him simply to spill his innermost thoughts and his innermost pain. As though he might recount the horror of the war and everything that had come after with the same clinical detachment that she displayed.
“I’m sorry,” Eli said roughly. “I can’t do this.” He released the boy’s legs.
“I’m done anyway—”
“I can’t do any of this.” Eli could feel shame at his cowardice burning through him, but he didn’t care. Until this moment he had forgotten. Forgotten that he was an object of morbid curiosity to be assessed or reviled. But no matter where he went or what he did, he would always be reminded.
Eli spun and headed out of the room, not looking back.
“Rivers.” Eli was halfway down the servants’ hallway when he heard his name.
He almost didn’t stop, angry at the delay, angry at himself. “What?”
“Forgive Rachel,” Strathmore said, coming to a stop before him. “She is very passionate about what she does. Admirable, but sometimes it clouds her judgment.”
Eli crossed his arms over his chest.
Strathmore’s dark eyes, so like his sister’s, regarded him steadily, giving away nothing. “Powder burn?” he asked suddenly.
Eli raised a hand to touch the ruined side of his face before he could stop himself. “Jesus. Not you too,” he growled.
The baron shrugged, unconcerned with his ire. “I saw injuries like yours often. Though not to this extent. Usually it was the result of some panicked soul short-starting his round. The resulting explosion burns were similar, if not as severe, though significant damage to the eye was common. Your scarring suggests something much greater in scale. Like an artillery explosion.”
The significance of his words distracted Eli. “You served. Were you with Wellington?”
“To the end.”
“You were an officer?”
Strathmore almost smiled, as if that question amused him. “I was but a mere surgeon.”
A mere surgeon who was still prying into things that were none of his business. “What do you want, Strathmore? Why did you follow me out here? And don’t tell me it was to discuss artillery burns.”
The baron’s steady gaze was almost unsettling. “You’ve been gone a long time.”
“Is that a question?”
“Only if you answer it.” A dark brow rose fractionally.
Eli didn’t owe this man any sort of explanation. About anything. He remained mute.
“When Rose told me you had returned, I wasn’t entirely sure whether or not to believe her. Yet here you are, back from the dead to claim your legacy, but Dover, as lovely as it is, is somewhat removed for your purposes and interests, isn’t it? I would have thought, given the petition that has already been put before the courts to declare you legally dead, you’d wish to get to London with all haste. Unless, of course, there’s a reason you’re avoiding the city?”
Eli could feel a muscle working along the edge of his jaw. He resented what this man was implying even if it was the truth. Perhaps because it was the truth. “My interests are my business, not yours.”
“Mmmm.” The baron leaned back against the wall. “Perhaps. But your interests are not the only interests at issue here.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I am sure you are quite aware by now there are currently a dozen young ladies living under your roof, ranging in ages from fifteen to eighteen, Miss Swift being one of them. And, of course, both my sisters. Is this going to be a problem?”
Eli frowned irritably. “I’m not going to renege on whatever lease agreement my father had with the school.”
“That wasn’t what I was concerned about.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me.”
“I don’t like what you’re implying,” Eli growled.
“I’m not implying anything. I’m trying to make my position abundantly clear. Should you decide to remain at Avondale, as is your right as the owner of this estate, you will endeavor to stay away from the students. And you will stay away from my sisters.” It wasn’t said with malice, but the warning was unmistakable.
“I have no interest in your sisters,” Eli snapped. “Nor do I have any interest in a bevy of high-strung debutantes.” God, he would give them a parish-wide berth or die trying.
Strathmore leveled a long look at him. “You expect me to believe that? That your raison d’être is no longer stealing kisses from pretty maidens behind every hedge? Potted palms when a good hedge isn’t available?”
“I don’t care what you believe, Strathmore.” The bastard.
“In my experience, a tiger rarely changes its stripes.”
“This conversation is over.” Eli uncrossed his arms and started down the hall.
“I would strongly s
uggest that, if you do intend to remain at Avondale for the foreseeable future, you make use of the dower house. It is but a short walk, and it is where both Holloway and I stay while the students of Haverhall are in residence here.”
Eli paused, his memory fumbling. “Holloway? The Duke of Holloway?”
“Yes. August Faulkner. My brother-in-law.”
Something lurched deep within him. “Rose is a duchess? When—” He stopped, suddenly and inexplicably unsure he wanted the answer to his unasked question.
The baron gazed at him, his expression once again utterly unreadable. “No, not Rose. Clara. Holloway is Clara’s husband.”
Eli looked away, suddenly limp from the relief that curled through him. “He’s here too?”
“No, no. At the moment Holloway is in London doing what Holloway does best. Which is buying and selling empires for his own amusement. And ungodly profits, of course.”
Eli could hear a peculiar mix of resignation and admiration in that statement.
“I would suggest, Lord Rivers, that you address whatever business brings you to Dover with all due haste and move on.” Strathmore pushed his long frame from the wall. “There’s nothing here for you.”
Chapter 7
What happened today?”
Rose looked up from the book she’d been reading, blinking against the brilliant sunshine that was spilling in through the long library windows. She shielded her eyes and scowled.
“Is there a reason you’re standing in my light?” she grumbled at Clara, deliberately ignoring her sister’s question and trying to find her place on the page again.
“Is there a reason you’re hiding in the library on such a beautiful afternoon?”
“It’s a lovely library.” And it was. It was filled from floor to ceiling with books and maps and drawings. Treatises and manuscripts and dissertations. Plays and poetry and novels. Every subject that one could think of was represented to some degree, from science to fiction, politics to history, agriculture to art.
Maintained by an efficient staff, the gleaming, cavernous room was filled with light that flooded the room through its tall windows. Long wooden tables surrounded by carved chairs dominated the center of the room, ready for research or debates. Wide, upholstered armchairs were scattered around the edges in groups, inviting anyone to curl up with a book. Which was exactly what Rose had done.
Clara moved out of the light and took a seat in the brocaded chair next to her. Rose managed to ignore her sister for half a minute before she finally sighed and looked up. “For the record, I’m not hiding.”
“Harland said he helped with Charlie.” Clara propped her chin on one of her hands. “Before he fled from whatever questions Rachel was asking, looking like he wanted to fling himself off a cliff into the sea with rocks in his pockets.”
There was no point in pretending she didn’t know whom Clara was speaking of. Rose hadn’t been able to think of anything or anyone else since Eli Dawes had stumbled into her studio in the dead of night. “Rachel might have been a little…direct.”
“She is that. Though perhaps you ought to follow her example.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Harland also said that you barely spoke to the earl.” Her sister paused. “You should, you know. Talk to Rivers.”
“I have talked to him.” Though talk wasn’t probably the way he would describe it. Accuse, rail, and censure would be more accurate. And all based on her assumptions. Guilt pricked with an unpleasant swiftness.
Clara would have done none of those things, Rose reflected. Clara, with her flawless deportment, wouldn’t have let her emotions get the best of her. She would have presented her case, confessed her disappointment, allowed him to tell his side of the story, and probably offered him tea while she was at it.
Her beautiful sister sighed, pushing her thick mahogany hair away from her face. “I don’t mean whatever exchange you had in the dead of night when you almost ran him through with a paintbrush. I mean a real conversation—”
“We’ve had one. And now we’re done.” Rose raised her book back in front of her face, but she didn’t see the words.
“When?” Clara demanded.
Rose kept the book in front of her face. “Before Harland dragged Charlie Soames into the kitchens to bleed all over the place.”
“And?” Fingers appeared at the top of her page and snatched the book away from her.
“And what?” Rose reached for her book, but Clara was too fast.
“You tell me.” Her sister sat back and regarded Rose in that damnably calm manner of hers.
Rose looked away, staring through the windows and out into the lush gardens beyond the tall panes of glass.
“He’s different, isn’t he?” Clara said.
“You didn’t know him well enough to say that.”
“Not as well as you,” Clara agreed. “But well enough to know that the man who was famous for his brazen debauchery and shameless seductions avoided my very pretty, very wealthy students as if they had all contracted the plague. Couldn’t even look them in the eye. Declined any sort of social gathering to welcome him back.”
“How do you know all that?”
“Theo told me.”
“Aren’t you just a fount of gossip today?”
“I would have had a conversation with the earl myself, except, since he’s been back, he seems to be doing exactly what you’re doing. Hiding.”
Rose focused on a sparrow that had landed near the edge of the windowsill, its movements nervous and watchful. “He apologized to me.”
“Mmm.” Clara seemed to ponder that for a moment. “For what?”
Rose pondered her response. “For not being a good friend,” she said finally.
“Is that what he is to you?”
Rose gave a half-hearted shrug, unsure what the answer was.
Clara laced her fingers together, looking as though she was trying to pick her words with care. “These last years, when you thought he was dead, you’ve always maintained that Eli Dawes was no better than Anthony Gibson.”
The sparrow on the sill wheeled away, and Rose watched it go. “I was wrong.” There, she’d said it out loud. As though admitting it to another person made it more…valid. She’d believed the worst. Believed the very worst of Eli Dawes based not on proof, but on assumptions that had sprung from hurt and anger toward another.
That reality was as mortifying and shameful now as it had been when she first realized it.
“I see.” Clara sounded unconvinced. “That must have been one hell of an apology.”
Rose wasn’t sure what was more discomfiting, the weight of her sister’s gaze or the fact that Clara had cursed. Clara never cursed.
“He was…sincere.”
“Then you’re not angry with him?” Clara asked.
“No. Maybe. I don’t know.” Part of her still wanted to be angry, though for reasons that she wasn’t about to reveal to Clara. When those drawings had been published, the helpless fury and betrayal she’d so desperately wanted to unleash had been cheated out of a target by French guns. Now, years later, those same feelings had been cheated of a target by the truth. “What difference does it make?”
“It makes all the difference,” Clara said, and this time there was urgency in her words. “I saw what you went through with Anthony. And then…after. God, Rose, it almost destroyed you. It still affects—” Clara stopped and seemed to reconsider what she had been going to say. Which was good because Rose was not going to discuss the parts of her life that had altered and slipped away from her. The parts that she hadn’t been able to get back.
“He might have apologized,” Clara continued, more measured this time. “Nevertheless, Eli Dawes holds strong ties to your past. He represents a time in your life that brought you low. And I could not stand to see you go through that again.”
Rose continued to stare at the spot where the tiny bird had vanished.
Clara stood and stepped in front of Rose
again, forcing her to look up at her sister. “He owns this house, this property. You won’t be able to avoid him, nor should you ever have to. Here or anywhere else. But you need to make sure you know where you stand. You need to make sure that whatever lies between you and Rivers is settled.”
“It’s settled,” Rose grumbled, though it wasn’t at all, really.
“Is it? You sound less than sure. Which worries me. You need to protect yourself.”
“You don’t need to worry about me. I know how to protect myself.”
“Rose—”
“You said you believe he’s different,” Rose interrupted, tracing the delicate carving on the arm of her chair with the pads of her fingers.
“That was my impression,” Clara replied slowly.
“Then do not forget that I am different too.” Rose pushed herself to her feet so that she stood face-to-face with her sister.
“I haven’t forgotten anything,” Clara told her, reaching out to put a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Which is why you need to resolve whatever still remains between you and Rivers. For both of your sakes.”
Chapter 8
The sun was hot against her face, and Rose was cursing her fair complexion. She hadn’t bothered with a bonnet—in fact she hadn’t bothered with much of anything, once she’d made her decision. She’d paced alone in the library for long minutes after Clara had departed to prepare for her late-afternoon classes. Rose would have the students in her studio tomorrow morning, and a client was arriving for a sitting tomorrow afternoon, but right now there was nowhere for her to be.
Unless, of course, she listened to Clara.
Unless, of course, she sought out the Earl of Rivers and had a conversation that did not take place in the middle of the night, shrouded with shock at the sudden reappearance of a dead man. And not in a studio, submerged in old assumptions and emotions that had simmered for too long until truth had boiled them over, making everything messy and confusing. Because, as usual, Clara was right.
She needed to hold a mature conversation with Eli Dawes in which they would speak calmly of the future. In which she would make clear what she expected from him and what he could expect from her. It would be better to clarify everything so that when they met—and they would meet often at Avondale—they could do so without awkwardness and tension.